


A Mistake, My Love

by cathcacen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Endgame Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, F/M, jon snow x sansa stark - Freeform, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcacen/pseuds/cathcacen
Summary: In which Jon worries he may have saddled Sansa with a half-man, an incomplete and broken being and the shell of what he could've and might have been.





	A Mistake, My Love

She wakes to the sound of winter birds in the barren trees beyond her chamber’s windows, shafts of sunlight streaking through the cracks to paint the picture of dawn. Despite the echoes of last night that linger in her mind, she wakes to an empty bed, the side previously occupied by her lover having gone stone-cold. Their goblets sit on her desk by the fire, the flagon of Dornish red tellingly empty.

Sansa sits up and feels the world spin. It’s not a feeling she particularly enjoys, but one that takes a back seat nonetheless when she considers just how _alone_ she feels at present.

_He’s just been called out for work_ , she tells herself. _Surely that is it, and I am merely overthinking his absence._

Yet, when Jon avoids her throughout the day, she can’t help but feel a little concerned. So she has Ghost lead her to his master, and finds the man himself brooding by the heart tree, hunched over the water’s edge with Longclaw by his side.

She wonders if this is how Father had always looked to Mother.

“You’ve been scarce.” She tries for a smile as she settles by his side, and feels her heart sink when he flat-out refuses to look at her. “Jon, what is it?”

He lets out a sigh. “I’m just thinking, is all.”

“What about? Can I help?”

“No. Well, that is…” Jon’s eyes flicker up for the briefest of moments, and it’s then that she realises – she understands what it is he is trying to say.

“You regret it.”

The furrowing of his brows all but confirm the sentiment.

“I see.”

“It was a mistake.” Jon lowers his voice, and she watches as his hands tense about his knees. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I know there is nothing I can say that will make it better, but I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence. Last night… won’t happen again.”

She feels her heart skip a beat. _Last night_ , the mind whispers. _Last night, when we had celebrated the success of our trap – when we’d brought down three of the Night King’s lieutenants. When we’d, for the first time in months, truly believed Summer would come again._

She regrets none of it. But for Jon’s sake, she’s prepared to pretend it’s okay.

So she nods, gathering up whatever remains of her dignity, brushing off her skirts and adjusting her gloves. “Don’t worry. I’m fine as you can see, and we’ll have more battles to fight yet. You can attend to that with a clear conscience, cousin.”

When she walks away, she swears she feels her heart crack. She hadn’t even known it was still in there, any more. But there is work to occupy her mind, and she spends the next few months deep in discussion with the maesters and Northern lords alike, formulating plans for evacuations, sending missives for food and healing rations to the other noble houses, and overseeing the supply of materials for building war machines. All the while, she entertains court with the lords, sets up shelter for the refugees, and looks into wintertime garments for their people.

All in all, Sansa has very little time for love, and she makes sure to remind herself of the fact every night.

But when the war for dawn has ended, and when the people have begun to rebuild, her mind falls to Jon once again. Poor war-ravaged Jon, who’s beaten and broken and bruised in every way – and yet still alive. Jon, who skirts around her in the halls and barely meets her eyes with a strained smile upon his lips.

It happens the night Lord Manderly welcomes a new grandson. There are precious few opportunities for celebration now, but with the Night King defeated, the Northmen have more than earned their barrels of wine and the slaughtering and subsequent roasting of a few fat cows. She dances with some of the lords’ sons and japes with the daughters. More than once she comes to the rescue of Brienne, shooing off Tormund with a well-meant smack to the arm.

“You’ve saved me enough times,” She tells her sworn sword, and Brienne favours her with a smile.

By the time Arya’s gotten into her sixth cup of mead, she’s about ready to leave for her chambers. There is a pile of papers to be looked through, and other work to be done. They won’t miss her presence; and so she takes her leave. The last thing she sees is Arya belching in Jon’s direction, the latter letting out a laugh.

Something inside her twists and turns.

When she finally allows herself to feel the full brunt of emotion, it brings her to her knees, and she sinks onto the ground, sobbing into the night. The stone is warm, and she’s put enough of a distance between herself and the party to fall apart. And so she allows herself, for once, to cry for selfish reasons. Ghost pads up to her, and she sobs into his fur, fingers sinking into the thick, slightly coarse pile of pure-white.

_It was a mistake. I was a mistake._

It feels like hours later before he finds her, and for the life of her, she doesn’t understand why he’s there at all. But Jon’s arms are warm, and she allows herself to sink into him, even as he lets out a less-than-elegant cuss in his panic. But once he’s satisfied that she is in fact physically unharmed, he makes to withdraw.

“Wouldn’t want to make another mistake now.” The bitterness in her voice surprises even her.

Jon goes ashen, and she knows she’s hit a nerve. But when he speaks, it’s the words of a broken man. “You were never the mistake, Sansa. I was.”

She clenches her fists, but says nothing.

“I’m different. I’m prone to fits of violence. I don’t even know if I’m really alive, or if I can father sons. If I can love you the way you deserve to be loved.” He kneels by her side, sinks low, slumps forward. Suddenly, she’s not as mad as she’d thought. “Sansa… I’m not good enough for you. That’s what I meant, when I said that night was a mistake. I’m so very insufficient.”

She can’t help it. She’s told him before – that he’s worthy, that she loves him, that she wants him. But now that he’s lost again in the dark sea of his own creation, she has no choice but to show him.

So she kisses him. Fiercely, as a wolf might. Angrily. Hatred, fury, and yet love mingle together as she takes his lips in her own, her hands tight about the straps of his fine robes. She pulls him to her, grips him tight, and tells him as much as she is able in that one kiss: I want you.

He doesn’t pull away. Eventually, he stops fighting her. When at last they part, she leans her forehead to his own, and feels the salt of his eyes mingling with her own, wetting her cheeks and lips. “You’re an idiot, Jon.”

“Aye, I am.” Despite the mist in his eyes, he’s smiling. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ve been stupid, and you’ve hurt for it these past months.”

She nibbles his lip, and relishes in the way he winces at first, and then melts. “Gods help you if I wake tomorrow to find my bed cold and empty.”

Jon manages a chuckle, and she kisses him again.

He tastes like forgiveness – and how sweet a sentiment it is.


End file.
